


Hot Start

by fourfreedoms, Frosting50



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, First Times, Frottage, Gay Porn Hard, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Partially Clothed Sex, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 08:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frosting50/pseuds/Frosting50
Summary: Kaner doesn't show up intending to fix Jonny's dry spell with his  cock, but hey, if that's what it takes...





	Hot Start

**Author's Note:**

> Fourfreedoms was very ambitious, but it was surprisingly fun despite the time limitations.  And if the hawks don’t score all the goals, THIS IS NOT OUR FAULT. We tried to throw everything in AND the kitchen sink.

_January 21st, 2017_

Jonny opens the door, his face looking tired and wan, but he still summons up the ghost of a smile, because that’s his way—Mr. Power-of-positive-thinking. Patrick can’t help but smile back. 

“Fish tacos?” Patrick says, holding up the bag of takeout he brought and shaking it. 

Jonny’s smile grows a little more genuine. “From Antique?” he asks eyes zeroing in on the bag, as he directs Patrick inside. 

“Hell, yes, I even got you that one with kale,” Patrick replies, busying himself with unwrapping the containers on the kitchen counter. He drove out of his way to get these when he would’ve been more than happy to go to Velvet, but he’s worried about Jonny, even though Jonny keeps telling him not to be. 

Jonny moves easily around him to grab beers from the fridge and follows Patrick into the living room. Patrick’s already settled into the couch bypassing his tacos entirely to load up a chip with a generous amount of guac. He looks up to see Jonny staring at him, bemused. “Better get in on this, or I’m gonna eat it all.”

Jonny rolls his eyes, dropping to the couch beside Patrick. He polishes off the first taco easily before knocking his shoulder into Patrick’s. “Thanks.”

Patrick slants a glance at Jonny, but he’s still entirely focused on the food, before shrugging. “Course.”

They finish eating in companionable silence, fighting for the last of the guac, before Patrick finally launches into the purpose of this visit. 

“So…” he says. An auspicious start. 

Jonny groans, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes. “Oh no,” he says. “Is that what this is all about? What? You’re trying to fix me with _tacos_?”

“Not just tacos,” Patrick starts. “And I’m not fixing you—”

“Because I am fine,” Jonny says putting extra emphasis on the word. 

Patrick thumps him with one of the loose cushions on his couch. “I know, bro, c’mon,” he says. “I just—I figured you’d already tried green juice and floating and meditative yoga—”

“You do yoga,” Jonny interrupts, grabbing the pillow from Patrick batting him about the head.

“Not the point,” Patrick says, ducking and feinting a few punches at Jonny’s side.

Jonny abandons the pillow and puts Patrick into a headlock pulling him against his chest. “You’re such a bully,” Patrick laughs, elbowing Jonny in the side and rolling them both off the couch as he struggles to break the grip. They land with a thud, and Jonny does release the headlock but quickly wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist instead. They’re both laughing even as they struggle. It feels a bit like being 18 again—so full of pent-up frustration and verve that the only way to release that energy was to roll around on a series of hotel room floors—wrestling for fun so one of them didn’t actually kick the other’s ass for real.

Finally Jonny succeeds in rolling Patrick under him, and no amount of Patrick bucking up his hips looks likely to dislodge him. No one’s ever called Patrick-fucking-Kane a quitter though, and he braces his feet underneath him for better leverage. When he bucks up, Jonny inhales harshly through his teeth, a sharp hiss that cuts through the noise of their laughter and labored breathing. “Uh…” Jonny says rolling off Patrick.

Patrick can’t help glancing down to check, and yup, definitely hard. His eyes flick back up to meet Jonny’s. “It’s just friction dude, but jesus when’s the last time you got laid?” He laughs even as Jonny’s face turns obstinate. “I think we mighta found the problem here, bud.”

“Hilarious,” Jonny says dryly, raising his legs to shield his dick from view, like Patrick doesn’t know what’s hiding back there. “I’m not 21 anymore, what the hell is that gonna solve?”

“Orgasms solve everything.” Patrick says sagely, kicking Jonny in the thigh to draw his attention back to him, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Jonny huffs out a laugh at him, and Patrick can’t help grinning back. “What, is that some sorta Irish Proverb there? My right hand is doing me just fine, I assure you.”

” _My right hand is doing me just fine._ Jesus, that’s—” Patrick shakes his head a little, kinda fucking horrified. “You can do better than that. I think that might be your problem. Pulling your rope to knock one out before bed is not the same as getting laid. How long have you gone here?”

“Forget it,” Jonny says unfolding his body to stand up, gathering the remainder of their food from the coffee table and walking it into his kitchen. 

Patrick grabs the empties and follows him. “You just been striking out lately?” He asks, incredulous, who doesn’t want to take Jonny home? “What all the chicks at Paris blackout and forget you’re the captain of the Chicago Blackhawks?”

“I’m 28,” Jon starts, turning back from the trash and leaning against the counter.

Patrick looks at him waiting a beat. “Yeah, so? So am I? I’m still getting laid.”

“I don’t want to pick up someone random. I’m over fucking groupies. I’m just—kinda done sleeping with people I don’t care about.”

Jonny’s not looking at him, but the set of his shoulders is tense. Patrick’s voice feels thick and he swallows to clear it. He didn’t come here to fight with him. “Yeah, I, uh, I get that.” 

He’s been carrying an at-times confusing, always-inappropriate torch for Jonny for a long time. It hasn’t kept him up nights, but it has meant that sometimes he’s imagined saying something, having Jonny tell him that he feels the same. Patrick couldn’t even tell you where the desires come from. He just—he notices Jonny. Always. And there are times where Jonny will say something, and it will go straight to his middle. But it would be risking far too much to say anything. Besides, if it never comes up, Jonny can’t shut him down, and there’s always a possibility there, thrumming between them. 

“Kaner,” Jonny’s voice goes soft. 

Patrick looks up, startled, dreading what Jonny might’ve divined from his face, forever eerily perceptive. 

“I’m not knocking your lifestyle,” Jonny says. “If you’re having fun hooking up, then that’s totally rad. I’m glad for you.” 

Patrick blinks at him. “No—that’s—what?”

“It’s just more energy than it’s worth, you know? And more often than not, I just feel like shit afterwards.” 

Patrick shakes his head and takes a deep breath in, heart beating hard in his chest. He doesn’t know what’s got ahold of him, but he finds himself saying, “I am a person that cares about you.” 

There. He’s come clean. And if Jonny chooses to remain in the dark, pretend that’s not what Patrick meant, then that’s fine. It was vague enough. 

Jonny looks back at him, big-brown eyes wide. Patrick’s pulse roars in his ears. He has no idea how to read that expression, which is honestly freaking him out, because he knows Jonny like he knows the back of his hand, but now he’s got nothing. 

And then Jonny’s moving, crossing the kitchen in three long strides. “Peeks,” he says, like he means to start a very serious conversation, and that does not sound good. Patrick drums his fingers on the counter, unable to meet his eyes. He hates the fizz inside his gut he always gets when Jonny uses that nickname, especially if he’s about to get some big letdown. He’s totally unprepared for Jonny’s hands to come up and frame his face, for him to brush his mouth over Patrick’s. Jonny makes a soft noise when Patrick doesn’t immediately kiss back. Patrick thinks he can be forgiven for taking a moment to get with the program, but when he does, he belts an arm around Jonny’s waist, drawing him in close. 

It is shamefully not the first time he’s kissed a person taller than himself, because some of his girlfriends were over 6 foot in heels, but it’s given him a good sense of how to work this, and it makes his chest go tight when Jonny drops his palms, stroking them down over his shoulders to rest at his hips. They fit together, bodies in perfect alignment, he should’ve known. 

He draws back for air and because he needs a moment. Jonny’s eyes drift closed and he presses their foreheads together. 

“You uh—you did get what I was offering?” Patrick asks, fingers tracing over the hem of Jonny’s t-shirt. 

Jonny chuckles. “I think I’m reading you loud and clear.” He pulls Patrick towards him for another kiss. 

"Okay, just to clarify," Patrick mumbles against Jon's lips as they break apart. "You're gonna break your dry spell with me?"

Jonny looks at him with the kind of fond exasperation Patrick’s come to know well over the years, closing his eyes for a brief second, “I can quit being into you, anytime I want.”

Time slows down once they’ve made it to Jonny’s room, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and making the whole room golden. Patrick’s skin is buzzing everywhere they’re touching: they’ve hardly been able to stop kissing long enough to remove clothes, even though, god, Patrick can’t be the only one who desperately wants to get naked here. Jonny eventually shoves him away, laughing a little, before pulling his own shirt over his head. Patrick just takes a second to admire the view—tan skin over nicely delineated muscles and gorgeous—and he gets distracted for a few moments until Jonny grabs at his shirt.

Their coming together now made that much more intense: bare skin meeting bare skin. Patrick can’t hold back a low moan, scraping bitten nails up the broad expanse of Jonny’s back. Jonny’s stroking his back more gently, soft swipes up to the nape of Patrick’s neck and then down his spine until fingertips catch in the waistband of his pants. It feels like both a tease and a promise of things to come.

Jonny sucks a hard kiss into the thin skin of Patrick’s neck, just above his pulse point, and his body feels like it might fly apart. He’s clutching tight to Jonny’s neck but honestly doesn’t know if he’s trying to push him away or keep him there, pleasure hovering on the knife edge of too much. Patrick slides his hands into Jonny’s hair, fingers slipping as he tries to get a grip on the too short strands. “Fuck—fuck—you better not be giving me a hickey.” Jonny sucks harder, a hint of teeth, just for a second, before laving the sensitive skin with his tongue as he pulls back. Patrick makes a broken noise, like that spot has a direct line to his cock, jerking within the confines of his pants.

Jonny catches his lips for another kiss while divesting them of belts and pants. Distantly, Patrick feels like he should be helping here, but he keeps getting distracted by the way he gasps into Patrick’s mouth when Patrick digs his nails into the swell of his ass, and it’s all he can do to step from his boxers once Jonny’s shoved him down. Jonny takes advantage of Patrick being off-balance, hooks his foot around Patrick’s ankles, and tumbles them to the bed. 

Patrick wishes he could say he didn’t see this coming, but turns out Jonny doesn’t have that many moves and the line between wrestling and naked make-outs is thinner than he could have ever imagined. He opens his mouth to poke fun, but Jonny shifts and brushes their cocks against each other for the first time. Patrick bites down sharply on his lower lip as he rolls his hips into it. It’s not so much that rubbing his dick against Jonny’s is better than the delicious pressure of Jonny’s thigh was, it’s just—that’s Jonny’s dick. He feels a little lost in it. Jonny kisses him again, swallowing up the bitten off sounds he can’t help making as they work their hips together.

Jonny skims his hands up Patrick’s sides, and he arches into the touch; he can’t get enough of everything Jonny’s giving him. “Hang on,” Jonny says. He reaches over to the nightstand, rummaging around in the top drawer before bouncing the lube onto the bed. 

Patrick snags the mostly empty tube, twirling it between his fingers. “I guess your right hand really has been getting a workout.” He enjoys the flush that colors Jonny’s cheeks.

“Shut up,” Jonny says. He lays down flat on the bed, knocking cushions off. “Slick yourself up,” he directs as his pillows his head on his arms. Patrick stares at him stunned, all that beautiful smooth skin spread out before him, the firm curves of his buttocks and the solid heavy muscles of his thighs. Patrick has spent years trying not to look. Partially because it’s not like it should even be special with the company they keep, but Jonny’s thighs are a sight to behold, with quads and hams that look like they’ve been sculpted from marble. 

Patrick skims his fingertips over one velvety soft cheek, ignoring the lube. “You wax, don’t you?” 

“No, fuck you, you know I just don’t grow a lot of hair,” Jonny replies. 

“You have hair in your pits and none on your junk, I call foul,” Patrick replies. 

Jonny rolls his eyes. “You gonna fuck my thighs or no?” 

“Oh god, you offering?” Patrick asks, bowled over. 

Jonny nods, a lazy smile on his lips. Patrick tries not to over-telegraph his eagerness, but he probably fails in his urgency to get himself slicked up and arranged over Jonny’s body, but Jonny’s the first to groan when he carefully slots his dick between Jonny’s tensed thighs and thrusts down. 

“Oh fuck,” he says and mouths at Jonny’s ear, grazing the shell with his teeth as he starts to rock his hips. The sounds that Jonny makes each time he moves are almost more overwhelming than the taut pressure around Patrick’s cock. Jonny fists his hands in the sheets and pushes back against him, raising himself up off the bed enough that Patrick’s cockhead strikes his balls on his next thrust, making them both groan. 

“Stay like that,” Patrick commands, tugging at Jonny’s hips. He’s thrusting between Jonny’s cheeks now, running along his perineum and nestling up behind his balls with every stroke. Patrick’s next thrust catches on his flaring little hole, like he could pop it in with just the slightest extra shove. The thought nearly ends him and he must say something about it out loud, because Jonny makes a choking noise, and then he’s shoving a hand under himself, wrist moving fast as he starts to jerk himself off in time with Patrick’s movements. 

“Oh shit,” Patrick says, “are you close?” 

Jonny digs his cheek deeper into the mattress, like he doesn’t want to admit it, but he lets out another deep groan when Patrick speeds up, bouncing them both on the mattress. 

Jonny thrusts back against Patrick hard and then goes tense all over with a choked moan. He trembles all over and Patrick realizes dimly that he’s coming. Only a few strokes more and Patrick follows, collapsing on top of Jonny like his strings have been cut. 

Jonny tolerates it for a little while as their breaths even out, but eventually he grumbles and rolls Patrick off of him to get off the bed. Patrick turns onto his back as he watches Jonny makes his way around the room, using a shirt to mop at his softening cock and between his thighs and going to get himself a glass of water. Patrick’s especially gratified to note the way he’s smiling to himself. 

He settles back down on the bed, dragging a pillow up off the floor to place behind his head, and Patrick rolls over, curling himself into Jonny’s warmth. 

“So…” he says. 

“So,” Jonny replies, before he kisses him. 

*  
_January 27th, 2017_

Jonny is all long legs and lean lines at the NHL 100 ceremony. Patrick was intellectually aware of how much Jonny had slimmed down, but he hadn’t clocked the extent of it until he saw him standing up on the stage with Ovechkin and Crosby, and Sid looked like a broad hulking lug in comparison. It was almost comical. It looks good on him of course, he wears it well, but Patrick’s heart hurts a little. He knows Jonny isn’t entirely comfortable with being here tonight—or with being at All Star Weekend at all—but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Jonny’s buoyant, all smiles, and Patrick wants to bend him over the nearest flat surface and fuck the breath out of him. 

They’ve already hooked up three other times since last Saturday, and while they haven’t really talked about anything serious, Patrick knows himself and he knows Jonny, and it doesn’t feel casual. It’s been two whole days now though without anything and he’s panting for it. He’s not sure he can remember being so horny in his entire life, not even as a teenager. 

Unfortunate then to have so many damn cameras on him when he’s this wound up, especially when Jonny catches his eyes and smiles like he’s got a secret. Patrick takes a deep breath and runs through a rolodex of every unsexy thought he’s ever had: his collarbone injury; walking in on his parents; getting walked in on by Stan’s kids; watching Jonny go headfirst into the boards during that one game against Boston; hearing how Jonny had refused treatment after wrapping his car around a support beam; watching that fated sucker punch to the back of Jonny’s head fall, none of them yet realizing that it was the end of Jonny’s probable Hart winning season. It’s not lost on him that a lot of his bonerkillers involve Jonny getting hurt. 

It works though, enough that he can get through his conversation with Denis without totally embarrassing himself, even if he does have to surreptitiously take a moment to rearrange his junk. Patrick has relished every All Star nom he’s ever gotten, but right now, he would’ve traded them all for the break and the opportunity to sit with Jonny on a beach somewhere and just spend hours taking him apart. 

*

He doesn’t get a moment to act on it until they’re in the elevator on the way back to their hotel. 

“Oh, shit, not here,” Jonny says as Patrick pushes him up against the rear wall. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick tells him feelingly, taking his mouth with a deep kiss. Jonny’s long since unbuttoned the jacket and loosened his tie, and Patrick can’t help untucking the back of his shirt, desperate to get his hands on warm skin.

Jonny gets his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, like maybe he’s gonna push him, but when Patrick nips gently at his bottom lip he ends up sinking into it. They maybe shouldn’t be doing this here. No, they definitely shouldn’t be doing this here, not in a public elevator in a hotel crawling with players and press and the most rabid of hockey fans; and yet he can’t make himself stop, can’t even make himself care. It’s not even close to everything he wants, not after having to watch Jonny work the room in that damn suit all night, holding court and charming everyone, and looking so good.

It’s easy to get lost in it, Patrick could kiss Jonny for days, and the way Jonny’s running his hands up and down Patrick’s back is the best kind of distracting. So there’s a brief moment of confusion when the elevator dings having finally reached their floor. The break apart: flushed, panting, and disheveled enough that Patrick says a silent prayer of thanks that no one’s waiting on the other side of the opening doors.

They walk quickly down the hallway, keeping their hands to themselves, but if anyone were to see the way they were looking at each other, Patrick pinning Jonny to the nearest flat surface would only be slightly more obvious. When they finally get to to the door, Jonny keeps removing the keycard too soon, getting nothing but flashing red lights in return. It might not help, that Patrick’s crowded up close behind him, but he’s not moving. He snags the card from Jonny and gets the door open on the first try. “Boom,” he says pushing the door open and them though it. It’s barely shut behind him before he’s spun Jonny against the entry wall. 

Jonny’s bigger than him and could easily put up more of a fight—and usually does for sport—but it says something about how much he’s gagging for it too that he just lets Patrick muscle him around and push right up into his space.

Patrick doesn’t wait a beat longer to get his mouth back on Jonny, kissing him long and sweet. A groan spills from his mouth when Jonny gets his hands on his hips, widening his legs so Patrick’s cock slots just perfectly against his. Every sound is loud in the quiet room: each kiss, each hand whispering over fine wool fabric, the little choked out noises Jonny makes each time Patrick rubs against him just right. 

Patrick should get him on the bed, Jonny’s room has one of those, it’s perfectly well-appointed. But stepping away from Jonny for even a moment feels like asking too much. He gets his palm flat on the wall beside Jonny’s head and pushes against Jonny harder; he’s rewarded when Jonny throws his head back with a soft cry and goes stiff against him. 

“Oh hell,” Patrick says, shaking a little. He can’t believe Jonny got off just like that. 

They both look down between their bodies, stunned. The fabric of his trousers is thick enough that the evidence of what they just did hasn’t yet leaked through, but Jonny thumps his head back against the wall with a pained groan, cheeks still lit up with the last of his orgasm flush. 

“I just jizzed up a $4000 suit. Fuck.” 

Patrick laughs, even as he rocks against Jonny’s hip where his own insistent erection still plagues him. “Dry-cleaning will get it out.” 

“Sounds like the voice of experience,” Jonny replies, voice dry as he cruelly inserts distance between their bodies. Patrick is no longer an impatient jerk during sex, adulthood has taught him some lessons about waiting for his partner, but right now, he is half a step away from ripping his fly open and finishing himself off. He’s been living with this hardon for a long couple of hours. He must make some noise, because Jonny smiles at him. 

“Hang on,” he says, reversing their positions against the wall and dropping to his knees. The sight alone gets him nearly all the way there. He’s not gonna lie and say he’s never thought about Jonny doing this for him, but part of him still can’t really believe it’s happening. Some of that must show on his face because Jonny smiles up at him, small and real even as he’s dragging down Patrick’s zipper and smoothing back the fly of his pants.

He takes Patrick’s dick in hand, smoothing the bead of liquid at the top along the shaft and presses a feather-light kiss to the tip. It’s a lot, and Patrick has to close his eyes, head thunking back against the wall as he tries not to nut all over Jonny’s face.

“Watch,” Jonny says, voice commanding and sure, and Patrick is helpless not to respond as Jonny begins the his slow descent down until his lips meet his fingers, fisted at the base of Patrick’s dick. Jonnny holds him there for a second, throat fluttering around Patrick’s cock, and a bit more of this is all it’s going to take. He eases up and begins a steady rhythm: taking Patrick in almost all the way and working the base of his cock with sure strokes. 

Patrick thumbs the corner of Jonny’s lips, spread so wide around Patrick’s dick, the next time he takes him all the way in, and Jonny’s eyes fall shut for the briefest of moments. It hits Patrick—Jonny on his knees for him, loving it; the wet heat of his mouth; the arousal that’s been simmering under his skin all night—slams into Patrick then, lodging deep in his middle and suddenly he’s there: shuddering out his release like he’s been sucker punched. “Babe—” he tries to warn Jonny, pushing ineffectually at his forehead, once he realizes what’s happening, but Jonny only tightens his lips.

He tips his head back against the wall, and just focuses on his breaths in and out of his chest. That was amazing. “Damn, son,” Patrick says, finally, hands all thumbs as he tries to tuck himself back inside his pants. 

Jonny rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, satisfied, as he stands up in a single graceful movement. He brackets Patrick in against the wall with his arms. “I don’t fuck around,” he says, playfully arrogant like he only lets himself get with Patrick. Jonny kisses him, letting Patrick taste himself on his tongue. Well, there aren’t many people who can say the Captain of the Blackhawks has gone for the gravy on them. 

He backs off and reaches for the placket of his pants with a wince. “I gotta go get cleaned up,” he swats Patrick on the ass, and heads for the bathroom. 

Patrick rummages around in his duffle looking for some basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Jonny’s voice trails off a bit as he heads into the en suite, and Patrick glances up just in time to see his ass, bunching and flexing, slide out of view. Arousal hits him, not the slow burning kind he endured all night, but one that’s fast and fierce and has him abandoning all pretense of clothes. 

When Jonny exits a few minutes later, Patrick’s reclined on the bed, fisting his cock slowly, and he grins when Jonny stops abruptly. “You wanna?” he asks, never taking his eyes off Jonny 

“Already? Jesus, it’s like you’re still 20,” Jonny asks. But Patrick knows that face, and he knows it’s not a no.

“Been thinking about your damn thighs again, baby. Your fault walking around naked like that. Wanna get in there again.” Patrick says, watching Jonny’s expression war between pride and embarrassment. It makes his grin widen, “C’mon,” he cajoles, “it’ll be fun.”

Jonny drops to the bed, knee walking across the duvet until he’s settled atop Patrick’s thighs. “You ever fuck a guy?”

Patrick’s slow and steady rhythm falters. “No,” he says, voice gone raspy.

“You wanna?” Jonny says.

Patrick doesn’t deign to answer, just surges up to kiss Jonny hard.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Jonny says, laughing, as he rolls off Patrick and settles against his side. He grabs the lube Patrick had tossed on the bed earlier coating his fingers liberally. Jonny eases the first into his body and it makes Patrick’s mouth go dry. 

“You like being fingered?” Patrick asks as Jonny tips his head back on the pillow and his mouth drops open. 

Jonny answers with his eyes closed, “I don’t _dislike_ it.” He makes a soft noise as he presses his knuckles down behind his balls. “But it’s not really the point for me.” 

Patrick’s own fingers are already slick from fisting his own cock, and he slides the lube back and forth on his fingertips, spreading it around, thinking. 

“Can I?” he asks, though he’s already dropped his hand to thumb at Jonny’s entrance.

“Mmmhm,” Jonny agrees, widening his thighs in answer, and Patrick slips the tip of his finger, past the stretched slick rim, slotting it in alongside Jonny’s knuckles.

“Fuck,” Patrick groans as Jonny squeezes down around him. The noises the lube makes squelching in and out of Jonny’s body is pure pornograpy. 

“How do you usually do this?” he asks, leaning down over Jonny to press kisses up his throat. The same way he would if he was trying to warm up a girl. 

“Been a while,” Jonny says. “Missionary is good.” 

“Who?” Patrick asks, and then immediately regrets it. He doesn’t want to know this, not really. It’s stupid, it shouldn’t matter. He knows it can’t be anybody else in the league. Somebody would’ve told him. Surely they would have. He presses up behind Jonny’s balls the way he seemed to like and hopes he’ll forget about it. 

“Anna,” Jonny replies, voice soft, hitching his hips up into the stroke of Patrick’s fingers. 

“Anna? 5-foot 2 110-soaking-wet Anna?” Patrick replies incredulous. 

“Yup, Anna,” Jonny says. Patrick cannot believe it. That was his rookie year on-again-off-again girlfriend. He would’ve expected Mike Babcock before Princess Anna. 

“Should probably go a bit more,” Jonny interrupts his thought process, flexing his thighs. “You’re a bit larger than I’m used to.” 

“Oh man, jeez, I’m bigger than Anna’s strap-on, what a compliment,” Patrick says with a laugh.

“It fucking wasn’t one,” Jonny replies with a laugh, “your equipment is mutant.” 

Patrick pulls his fingers free, rolling on top of Jonny, nipping at his ear. “Mmm, s’true that once you get a ride on this, you can’t go back.” 

Jonny laughs, dragging his hands up to shove at Patrick’s shoulders. “Don’t set the bar too high on yourself, now.” 

“I’ll show you where to set it,” Patrick replies, exaggeratedly rocking his hips against Jonny’s. Whatever, he’s got this. He can definitely outfuck _Anna._

“Okay, this is good,” Jonny replies. 

Patrick doesn’t do a victory dance or cheer or anything like that. Although he kind of wants to, because holy shit, this is actually happening. He gets his knees under him and reaches down between them, fitting himself at Jonny’s hole. The first press is a slow near-tortuous descent. Jonny’s still so damn tight, and the slick hot pressure surrounding Patrick is short-circuiting his brain.

Patrick must get Jonny’s prostate exactly because he drops his neck back, its long column bent in a gorgeous arch, and moans brokenly. The sound sends a frisson of arousal through Patrick and he can’t help the stutter of his hips on the next thrust in. Jesus h. christ. He is the worst sort of lapsed catholic, but he’s about ready to worship at the altar. 

“Motherfuck, you feel good,” Patrick replies. 

“Keep going,” Jonny moans, winding his arms tight around Patrick’s shoulders. He can tell with every little jolting shiver that he’s getting Jonny just right. And this is just not going to last as long as he wants it to. 

“Christ—Christ—You gotta—” Patrick says, “touch yourself.”

Jonny drops his hand down between them and Patrick pushes himself up to watch himself sink inside, Jonny spread so beautifully wide around his cock, clenching down tight like he doesn’t want to let him go. He’s all sheened-up with sweat, panting, and Patrick is never going to be able to look at him in the locker room the same fucking way again. 

“Oh fuck, that angle is perfect, you’re gonna make me—” Jonny stutters, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and this is the most verbal he’s been during sex. Overwrought, Patrick shoves in a little harder than he meant to, but Jonny makes a sound like he swallowed his own tongue and then his spine is arching up off the bed, and he’s coming up his belly in thick pulses. 

Patrick keeps thrusting through it, relishing every dirty squeeze that comes on the heels of Jonny’s orgasm contractions. Jonny lets out a sleepy sated murmur and wraps his arms around Patrick’s back, stretching indolently back into Patrick’s thrusts. He slots his mouth over Patrick’s, kissing him lazily slow, as it finally gets to be too much for him. 

“Ah ah ah,” Patrick says, voice rising in pitch like he’s going to sneeze, and then he’s shooting inside Jonny, filling him up. 

Patrick waits a moment, still buried deep inside, before withdrawing. They forgot the condom, he realizes when he pulls out, dick slick with his own mess. 

When he says as much, Jonny stretches his back and says, “I’ve never used a condom with anybody I’ve been in a relationship with.” 

Patrick’s breath goes tight in his chest. He’s gonna say something stupid, he can feel it. 

“How do you like my mutant junk now?” Patrick whispers into his ear. 

Jonny cracks up, sides shuddering. “Oh my god.”


End file.
